


Habits of the Freefolk

by FedonCiadale



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, And an alcoholic, Bran is a matchmaker, F/M, He is fed up with this 3eyed Raven shit, He was behind the Red Wedding, Jon is a wildling, Littlefinger is a creepy shit, M/M, Minor Character Death, Which was just an attempt in this fic, because his plans didn't work out, gendrya mentioned, sansa in the vale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21695566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FedonCiadale/pseuds/FedonCiadale
Summary: Bran wants to use his seeing powers for a really good purpose: To free Sansa from the clutches of Petyr Baelish, bring her home and introduce her to a nice man - even if he is a wildling. Meanwhile Jon wants to plead Robb Stark to let the Freefolk through the wall and he is prepared to do anything to get the Young Wolf's goodwill including stealing a woman and kneeling.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jojen Reed/Bran Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 135
Kudos: 175
Collections: Jonsa Holidays 2019





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scatteredmoonlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteredmoonlight/gifts).



> So, Theon never conquered Winterfell, and Robb escaped the Red Wedding because he was warned. Littlefinger still took Sansa from King's Landing because he is a creep.  
> So most of the Starks are alive and Bran has every intention to ensure that they stay alive.  
> Lyanna survived and went beyond the Wall. Jon grew up with Tormund as fosterfather.  
> Some time has passed since the events of ASOS - don't ask me how much - and everybody is basically grown up, or almost grown up, including Bran. 
> 
> I struggled with this.... First, there was only a one liner in my head, and then the fic somehow blew up... And after all the build-up I didn't even use the one liner....  
> Shout out to all my Jonsa friends who gave me heads up that this fic might not be as bad as I think it is.  
> On the other hand, it is a multi chap and it is finished.  
> And it has most Starks alive.  
> I hope, you like it, scatteredmoonlight.  
> 

Jon held his fosterfather’s hand in despair. Tormund’s face had a waxen look to it and Jon had seen enough death in the last weeks to know that he would not last the night. They would not make it home both.

A single tear stole down his cheeks. To lose Tormund Giantsbane was a severe setback for them. And they were hard pressed as it was. The bitter taste of utter defeat was on Jon’s tongue.

Tormund’s breathing became shallow until Jon could not hear it any longer. He should disentangle his hand and probably burn the body.

When Tormund eyes suddenly opened and his grip on Jon’s hand tightened, Jon almost drew his sword, but his fosterfather’s eyes had not become the icy blue Jon feared. They were still clear as the sky, but there was no unnatural sheen in them.

“Jon.. ” Tormund stammered.

“I am here.”

“Almost all our hope is gone. Our folk must pass the Wall, all of them. We cannot stem this tide. Not when they send our own dead against us. Mance will not succeed in bringing them down all on his own. And I doubt he can defeat the Night’s Watch.”

Jon felt a pang of the all too familiar despair that had become his almost constant companion.

“Jon…”. Tormund inhaled deeply with a rattling breath that made Jon’s heart clench.

“There once was a Night King, an evil man who allied with the White Walkers, and Free folk and the Stark of Winterfell defeated him together, North and South united in a rare alliance. We need to bury the bad blood between us, we need to make them see. You could be our hope.”

“Me?”, Jon suddenly felt the cold sting his lung.

“Your mother came from the South. Her family is from the South. We never asked her about it, and she would not talk about her past.”

Jon nodded. His memory of his mother was very dim. She had died of a winter fever, when he was a small child. He remembered her singing and her soft and kind, but firm hands, but even as a small child he had felt that his mother was different.

“I think you must contact this Stark King, the Young Wolf, they call him. Make him see. Find your family and get our people the help we need.”

Tormund closed his eyes for a second, his grip became weaker.

“You must go to our house, loosen the third brick on the right at the hearth. There is a bag that holds a brooch. A brooch that should help you identify your family. Your mother left it to you, but let me swear to only give it to you if the need arose.”

“But father…,” Jon objected, “if my mother fled from her own family, they must not have wanted her. And the Southerners hate us.”

“They must lay aside their hate or be swept away in the flood that comes for the living. Perish or ally with the enemy, that is our choice. Trick them, use your persuasive tongue, do as they ask, kneel if necessary…”

Tormund’s breathing almost stopped again.

“I don’t think your mother’s family hated her. I caught her talking about brothers rather fondly, although she never mentioned their names.”

His fosterfather’s voice was only a whisper.

“Promise you’ll burn me, but don’t waste any time, lest you’ll be caught. Don’t wander at night.”

Now, Jon really cried, and he was not ashamed. Tormund was his family. But he protested anyway.

“I’m not stupid. I know how to avoid the White Walkers.”

“Take my dragonglass dagger. May the Gods protect you.”

Jon had to strain to understand his fosterfather’s last words.

When Tormund had breathed his last, Jon did as he had been told. He took his fosterfather’s mittens that were better than his own and the dragonglass dagger. He left his clothes in case a wanderer needed them and built the pyre. When he had put fire to the wood, he remembered the song his mother had sung as a lullaby. It was a song about a lonely wolf, at sunset in a winter night. A wolf who was cold and hungry until his howling brought other wolves. They circled him, sniffing and whining, because he was not their pack, but in the end, when the night settled, they ran and hunted with him. Jon still remembered the somewhat silly chorus, that involved “ho, ho, howling to the moo, moo, moon.” He had loved it, when his mother had imitated the wolf and he had chimed in with glee on the chorus.

Somehow it seemed appropriate to sing this song to guide Tormund to rest. His mother had been alone, and Tormund had welcomed her in his family expecting no recompense. He had been a friend, when his mother had had nobody else.

Jon left the pyre as soon as he could be sure, that his fosterfather’s corpse burned well. The fire in his back he tracked home, carefully avoiding to leave tracks. Nobody really knew what skills the Wights remembered in their undead forms, and the White Walkers would certainly know that a burned corpse would mean at least one survivor.


	2. Bran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran plans to kill two birds with one stroke

“You cannot blame your brother, that he doesn’t believe you.” Jojen said. “The White Walkers have been a myth for thousands of years.”

“He would believe me, if we had proof that my dreams are green dreams.” Bran answered. They were sitting under the weirwood, and he fingered the red leave on one of the branches. He wished he didn’t sound like he was sulking.

 _Although I am sulking._ Bran was furious that Robb did not believe him.

“It is unfortunate, that you jumped to conclusions too early about some of your dreams. If you had waited before you told Robb that he would find Arya in the Riverlands…” Jojen trailed off.

Bran could feel his face growing hot. Why did Jojen remind him of his failures. He had gotten so much better!

“But Arya was in the Riverlands! And I warned him about the betrayal of the Freys.”

“And he was warned about that from Olyvar Frey as well. He didn’t need your dreams to escape that trap.”

Jojen looked at Bran with the affection of an older brother.

“I know you have become better, but remember that greenseers and wargs are almost as rare as White Walkers. Not to talk about raven seers. People fear magic.”

Bran hated it and loved it, when Jojen had this look. He hated this look, because it reminded him that Jojen was older, that he was a man, where Bran was still a boy in the eyes of many. He might be the prince of Winterfell, a seer and brother to a King, but in his lessons with Jojen, he often felt like a toddler looking in awe at the sure walk of the grown-ups. And he loved this look, because it was full of affection.

_I will be the three eyed Raven._

“But magic will be our only chance, if my visions are right.”

Jojen nodded. “We need to come up with a plan that will make your brother see the use of magic.”

He settled back on his chair that stood beside Bran’s. “Now, can you tell me, what you know about your family?”

“Rickon got up last night to steal some cheese. My mother and Robb must be at Riverrun, I can feel the running water under their feet.”

Jojen shook his head.

“Bran, we know that Rickon is growing and eats more than could possibly fit into him. And we know where your mother and brother are. Tell me about your sisters.”

Bran closed his eyes and tried to recall the pictures in his mind.

“Arya is blurred somehow. She is in a city, a city veined by canals. There is a giant statue at the harbour where she sold cockles and mussles yesterday. She must be in Braavos. I can see her face, but it keeps changing into faces of other people.”

Jojen nodded encouragingly.

“I might finally know where Sansa is.”

He wanted to impress Jojen with this new found knowledge.

“There is still a figure that casts a shadow on her. She is in grave danger much more than Arya. She is afraid. She seems to be behind a door, but someone is slipping her a key. I feel ice, and stone. I feel the presence of blood of the First men.”

“And?”

“I think she is in the Vale. She is trying to escape, but my dreams tell me, that she’ll need help.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Bran nodded. “I fear for her. The shadow has become darker. It reaches for her with dark, long and thin fingers. She cries at night.”

“So, Lord Raven,” Jojen asked. “What do you suggest?”

“Robb won’t send a team to rescue her. He already did that, when she was still in King’s Landing, only to realise that she had been conjured away. And he didn’t find Arya, where I told him he would find her.”

“That means, you must send someone.”

Bran had left his final triumph for the last news his visions had given him.

“There is someone else. It took me a while to realise who he must be. If we do this right, we can save many Wildlings from the Others, save Sansa, convince Robb and get allies along the way.”

“Interesting, tell me,” Jojen said.

And Bran did.


	3. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon arrives at Winterfell

Jon was sure, he imagined it, but the needle of the brooch he had hefted on his shirt felt cold against his skin. The brooch had shaken everything Jon believed in. He knew his mother had not been of the Free folk, but the brooch was of such a high quality, that she must have been of a noble family.

It showed two animals entwined, an animal that looked like a snake with wings, and a wolf. Both were accentuated with tiny splitters of gems and glittered, when Jon had held the brooch up in the sun.

Jon did not know much about Southerners, but he knew that there were kneelers and lords, and he knew the lords had banners that at times showed animals. There was a ballad among the Freefolk about Bael the Bard and how he had stolen the rose of Winterfell, and how the wolf of Winterfell had slain him. Jon shuddered. _The wolf means Winterfell, but that snake?_

So trying to find this Stark King might lead him to his family. The thought made him shudder. He did not want to be a Southerner, and especially none of lordling descent. Being a kneeler was bad enough, but being a lord who demanded kneeling was worse. He would not show the brooch to anybody. As far as he was concerned his mother had been of the Freefolk. They were his people. Jon did not want to be part of a family of lords.

Still, the Freefolk needed help. If there was no other way, he would use the brooch. But only, if there was no other way. _Mother might have had fond memories, but she left her family._

Jon had decided to climb the wall on a day that was not too sunny. He had remembered * telling him about how best to get south of the wall. It was almost impossible on a day with frosty wind, but a sunny day was treacherous, because the wall would weep, and its tears could sweep a lone climber away.

It had been the most frightening experience of his young life, but the need of his people had driven him forward.

The first night he had set foot on Southern soil, the dreams began. When he closed his eyes, he would hear a voice, that called him. His mother’s brooch would whirl before his eyes, the red snake dissolving into the leaves of a weirwood tree. The red leaves vanished one by one until only two were left that became the red eyes of a huge white wolf.

After three nights, he finally understood and remembered what the voice told him.

_Come to the weirwood at Winterfell. The white wolf will lead you._

He stole only what he needed. He knew it was risky, he could not be caught and executed as a wildling, but he reckoned he would be faster if he did not waste time hunting. He was accustomed to blend into the woods and it was much warmer south of the wall. He barely escaped death when there was a warm wind from the south that melted the snow and made his hovel collapse. He would have been dead, if he had not gone outside to piss after having been woken by one of his dreams another time.

When he came further south than he had ever been, he began to relax. His accent would probably give him away, but close to Winterfell, people would not suspect a lone traveller to be a Freefolk raider.

There had been some stone towers he had thought to be castles, until he realised that they were abandoned and corrected his mistake. When he saw a huge castle on the horizon, he knew that he had finally found what he sought. He had spotted the castle as a small spot at sunrise and it had taken him all day to reach it and now it loomed over him. His heart was filled with dread.

_Come to the weirwood at Winterfell. The white wolf will lead you._

A sudden gush of wind picked up the banners on the castle towers and his heart made a sudden leap when he saw a grey wolf. The kindred animal of the Starks although Jon doubted that these Southerners would know that.

Now, it was time to come out into the open. He had thought about a million ways how he could approach this King, this Young Wolf. He grimaced. It would probably involve kneeling.

He openly used the path that led to the Castle. The wind almost drove him faster on the path. When he reached the gates, he stretched out both hands, palms turned outside, so everyone would see that he held no weapon.

He had had miles to think on what to say.

“Declare yourself.”, the guards challenged him. They did not sound particularly afraid. He was just a lone man after all.

“I am Jon from the clans,” Jon said, leaving out that his clan was from the true North. “I need to see the King on an urgent business about my clan.” He hoped, that they would think he came as a messenger from the clans that settled just south of the Wall. All he needed was a chance to plead the case of the Free Folk.

“The King is in the South. You can try your luck with Lord Bran who acts as Lord of Winterfell. He’ll pass the message on, and you can rest. You look rather worn out.”

The exhausting journey had not broken Jon, but the unexpected kindness almost was too much. Jon did not trust his voice and just nodded.

The kind guard let him inside the castle, and he entered a huge court. Sunset had come and Jon could see that the people in the castle were settling down for the night.

He was not sure, if he should see this Lord Bran or if he should rather rest and continue South to see the king.

_Come to the weirwood at Winterfell. The white wolf will lead you._

He gave a start when he saw a huge white wolf, no, not just a wolf, a direwolf, that stood in the courtyard. His red eyes settled on Jon and Jon felt his heart pounding. This was too much to be a coincidence.

“Could you show me the way to the heart tree?”, he asked the guard. “I want to thank the Gods for my safe arrival.”

“I wanted to lead you there anyway, Lord Bran is at the heart tree most of the time.”


	4. Bran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran and Jon meet. Bran gives a task to Jon.

Bran saw him first through Ghost’s eyes. He almost pitied him, when his cousin was startled by the direwolf. Bran was glad though, that he was prepared when the guard brought his cousin to the heart tree. If he had seen a man who looked so much like his father unprepared he might have been been more startled than the wildling seeing the direwolf.

Bran was very much aware of Jojen watching him. He had promised to let Bran handle this alone and Bran was very nervous. He tried his best to look mysterious and aloof. _The three eyed Raven should be aloof. Jojen told me the Raven does not have feelings._

The guard brought his cousin and stood in attendance.

“My lord, here is the wildling. He came just as you said.”

Bran was satisfied. His reputation in Winterfell was growing fast and he had become so much better at predicting correct times.

“Thank you, Tom”, Bran said. “You have done well. You can leave us now and go to the kitchen. Tell them to prepare a nice meal for our guest.”

“Are you sure, my Lord? He is a wildling!”

“Jojen, please give my cousin bread, salt and water. Once he has had a bite, Tom will be satisfied, I am sure.”

“Cousin?” the guard and the wildling said in unison.

“Yes, cousin,” he said. “Tom, this is the son of my aunt Lyanna raised by the people in the North. He has a brooch that can prove that this is no empty claim.”

There was no way, that Tom would leave now, Bran was sure.

Bran saw from the corner of his eye that Jojen was shaking his head in a way that seemed to say ‘braggart’.

He turned towards his cousin. “I trust you did bring the brooch.”

His cousin’s eyes were huge, and he looked satisfyingly awed.

He nestled with his cloak and undid the knots that held it. When he held out the brooch it sparkled in a sudden ray of light.

Bran reached out, but when his cousin wanted to give him the brooch, he took his hand instead.

“Welcome cousin, you do look a lot like my father. You couldn’t deny having Stark blood.”

The hand he held in his only shook a little. Bran was impressed.

“This is Ghost by the way.” Bran pointed to the white direwolf, that had been his father’s and that was now one of his. “He will help you.”

His cousin was startled. Bran briefly warged into Ghost and led him closer, wagging his tail, pressing himself to the legs of the man who would be his new owner.

His cousin could not resist. He petted the wolf.

“What errand brings you South of the wall?”, he asked his cousin.

The next half hour felt deeply satisfying to Bran. From his cousin’s mouth everything he had told Jojen over the last weeks was confirmed. That the Wildlings were pressed, that they had united under Mance Rayder, their king to get beyond the Wall or breach it, if necessary, that the White Walkers were on their way.

“So, we are between hammer and anvil and if you do not let us through the Wall, we are doomed.”

“You ask much, cousin,” Bran said. “It is good though, that you followed the dreams I sent you and came here. I’ve told my brother repeatedly about the White Walkers’ return, but he doesn’t believe in legends as he has told me. But I happen to have a plan how we can convince him, that you seriously want to bury the bad blood between our peoples.”

He smiled at his cousin. “It is something you should be good at and that will show him your good intentions and will make him willing to listen to your plea.”

There was a sudden distrust in his cousin’s eyes. “What do you want me to do? I won’t do anything to hurt my people.”

“Steal a woman,” Bran answered. “You should know how to do this.”

After he had explained, where this woman was to be found, his cousin was dismayed that he would have to go even further South, but Bran assured him that Ghost would accompany him.

“When you have succeeded, you and Sansa can travel to Riverrun, where you will find my brother. I will give you a letter, that tells you what to do, depending on the circumstances of your arrival.”

He hoped his smile was rueful. “The future is not clear cut.”

“I can’t read”, his cousin answered dismayed.

Bran waved dismissively. “Sansa can.”

Finally, he sent his cousin with Tom to give him a guest chamber. Ghost was already trotting at his side.

Bran gave Jojen a happy grin.

“Isn’t this brilliant?” he asked. “Robb will gladly accept him, Sansa will be free, and if we’re lucky we get the wildlings as allies.” _And Sansa will finally meet a nice man. There is no reason why I could not spread some happiness in the world with my knowledge._

Jojen grinned back.

“And you were so busy, playing the all-knowing Lord Raven that you forgot to ask your cousin about his name.”

Bran could feel his grin falling. He concentrated. Surely this information must be somewhere in his visions. But the only thing he remembered right now, was Sansa calling his cousin “my love,”, “my bard” and “my wilful wildling”, but none of these were a name.

Jojen laughed. “His name is Jon, Bran.”

“Sure?”

“A little mouse at the gate told me.”

After a moment, Bran had to laugh as well.


	5. Alayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne just wants to leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Littelfinger is creepy, he is always creepy of course

Alayne fingered the chestnut tresses of her hair to hide that her hands were sweating. Lord Baelish had ordered his man Lothor Brune to drag Mya into his chambers. He was questioning her, but Mya stood her ground. _May the Gods bless her._

 _Don’t look at her. Don’t look. He will notice._ Alayne had no doubt that Lord Baelish would kill Mya if he only suspected what Mya’s intent had been.

Mya, fearless as she was, answered Lord Baelish with clipped sentences, that were at the edge of being insubordinate. Alayne knew that Mya only got away with it, because it was believable that she did only care for her mules. And one of the mules was ill. That was after all why they had come up with the idea.

Alayne was devastated though when Mya was dismissed and gave a slight shake of her head. Something must have gone wrong, but Alayne would not learn about it, before she had an opportunity to talk with Mya.

But she smiled at the man who called himself her father, fetched his wine, rubbed his back and was the dutiful daughter he wanted, or rather more than a dutiful daughter. He wanted a kiss, and Alayne pressed the nails of her right hand into the palm of her left, so that the pain would distract her from his repugnant wet lips. Alayne was sure, that she had felt the tip of his tongue and his hands were roaming on her back. She pressed her nails harder into her palm.

She suspected that she had not much time left, before Lord Baelish would force himself on her. She pretended not to realise his hungry looks. But she could hardly pretend not to hear his hints. Now, there was rarely a day, when he did not tell her about his plans. He wanted to marry her to Harry, the heir of the Vale and planned on cuckolding him. Or so he told her, when he was drunk enough.

He was drinking more heavily every day, and Alayne knew it had to do with some plan that had failed. She suspected that it probably was better for Westeros, that his plan had failed.

So, she laughed about his jokes, made sounds of awe as he explained some of what he planned for her, told him how clever he was, smiled and kissed him and mixed strongwine into his cup, so that he would pass out earlier.

Finally, he fell asleep and Alayne told Lothor Brune to bring him to bed. She feigned sleep, when Lord Baelish’s knight looked in and it was well past midnight, before she finally dared to get up to look for Mya.

Mya drew her in her small room, and they sat on her bed.

“I did make it to the next village, and I was asking around for a quick way to transport a letter, when I saw a man with the moon-and-falcon of Arryn. I was not sure, if he would report to the Lord Protector, so I retreated.”

Alayne fought tears.

“I learned something else though,” she whispered. “And this might give us the opportunity we waited for.”

Alayne pressed her hand.

“Tell me, I’m ready to try anything.”

“At the inn there were some men, who told everybody they were peddlers. There were four or them, one of them had a burned ear.”

Alayne thought. “One of the burned men? You think they were clansmen in disguise?”

Mya nodded. “They were too loud, too boisterous, and they mentioned how this guy had burned his ear as a babe. They wanted to deflect suspicion.”

“Do you think they plan something?”

“I had a look at their horses and carts. They had potatoes and turnips in them, but the carts stood too deep in the mud. I found weapons, good weapons beneath the turnips.”

“Are you quite sure? Do you think they will attack?”

“Yes, and that is our chance. When they attack you can flee.”

“No, we flee. I won’t leave you here with Baelish.” She shuddered to think what he would do, if he suspected Mya was her friend. Myranda had been her friend and she had taken a fall from a horse.

Alayne still didn’t know if Myranda had helped kill Sweetrobin or if she had just known to suspect Petyr and had tried to blackmail him. She hoped the latter, because she did not want to tarnish the memory of funny, laughing and giggling Myranda with the suspicion of murder.

“When will the clansmen attack?”, she wondered aloud.

The answer was easy.

“The tourney”, she heard herself whisper in unison with her friend.


	6. Alayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne seizes an opportunity and escapes

Alayne slept poorly, but at least she had an honest excuse. The preparations for the tourney had really taken almost all of her time, and she had seen as little of Lord Baelish as possible. She had become quite adept at telling Harold that her father had need of her as well as telling Petyr that her betrothed wanted to see her.

“Be careful, Alayne,” he admonished her. “Take care you are not alone with him, lest he deprives you of your maidenhead. He needs to marry you first.”

“I’ll be an obedient daughter, father,” she said and gave him a kiss. That was always the best way to silence him, although her left hand showed a dark halfmoon in her palm, so often had she pressed her nails into it to distract herself from her disgust in the last weeks.

_I am safer with Harry than with you. He might sleep around, but he has yet to demand more than kisses. And he promised me he’d crown me queen of love and beauty if he wins._

Not that Petyr ever demanded anything, but he had his ways to tell Alayne what he expected. And Alayne dreaded the day, he wanted more than kisses. She could see it in his eyes. Just thinking about it, made her want to drive her nails into her palm to the bone.

She often wondered what would have happened if she had just thrown herself at Lord Royce’s mercy after Lysa’s death. But there was still a price on Sansa Stark’s head and the King in the North, who was Sansa’s brother would not move beyond the line that had defined the border between his and Cersei’s territory, not when everybody knew, that Cersei did not hold his sisters. He was busy pacifying the Riverlands after Walder Frey’s treason. And if Walder Frey had been ready to betray the man he chose as his king, Alayne was not ready to bet Sansa’s life on the honour of anybody not even Lord Royce. Not with that much money on Sansa’s head.

Thoughts like this did not help her sleep, and when she woke the morning of the tourney, she felt, as if she had not slept at all.

She carefully chose her dress. No drab colour today, she needed to wear a dress that would make people remember her dress when they searched for her. She chose a bright yellow with a tint of orange, that would never have worked with Sansa’s hair colour. The dress would be ruined at the end of the day with all the mud that was bound to come up on the tourney field, but that couldn’t be helped. Alayne chose a bright blue scarf, the colour of House Arryn as a symbol of her betrothal to Harry. She chose glittering jewellery to adorn her hair. She would stand out in the crowd. After a quick look in the mirror, Alayne used some paint on her cheeks and powdered the skin under her eyes, so that nobody would see how tired she looked.

Harold’s beam told her that she had succeeded. He gave her a quick peck on her cheek and murmured appropriate compliments, Lord Baelish studied her with hungry eyes.

The day went by in a blur. Sansa Stark would have loved it. Even though it was a cold Winter day, the sun shone on the banners and the tourney was a splendid affair. Alayne was surprised how smoothly it all went. The steward only approached her three times with problems and they all could be solved easily. Alayne smiled, left and right, gave Harold her favour to the cheering of the crowds and watched the knights tiring each other out while they tilted.

 _‘They will attack in the evening, I am sure.’,_ Alayne prayed to any God who cared to listen, that Mya was right.

When the sun sank, Alayne waved for torches to be brought. She felt a pang of her heart that the additional light would make the Vale men easy targets.

_They shouldn’t be so cocksure then. Why don’t they have the area guarded._

Finally, it was dark enough, that they could got through with their plan. Alayne looked to the right, where Mya stood, casually leaning at a post, where the lever was hidden. She gave the tiniest of nods.

It was the last tilt and Harold had been as true as his word. One more tilt and he would be the tourney champion, and would crown her queen of love and beauty.

The balustrade, that held Alayne and the high born guests was trembling with the shouts and the noise of the tourney guests. Everyone’s eyes were on the knights.

Alayne could feel the floor sinking under her, just like planned, and she did not utter a word. She still heard the audience screaming when she came down on the earth beneath the wooden balustrade. She felt a thud, but did not hear anything over the noise of the crowd.

The ripped at her dress, even before her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and it came off easily. She felt her way to the right corner and easily found the second lever and the bundle. Hastily she donned the grey wig and that drab brown coat. She pulled the lever.

The whole balustrade creaked and groaned. The people on it began to scream just moments before the whole wooden structure came down. Alayne prayed that nobody would be hurt.

She disentangled herself from the wooden splinters. Someone took her hand. Alayne’s heart leaped before she recognised Mya.

“Come aside, poor woman,” Mya said. “Are you hurt?”

She led her away, and Alayne hobbled just like they had practiced.

“Thank you, girl,” she said in a breathless voice, that hopefully would sound old.

The commotion was just as Alayne had hoped. She almost pitied Harold, that his victory had become so sour, but everyone’s eyes were fixed on the broken balustrade, just as Mya and Alayne had hoped.

Mya leading an old woman away was just believable enough that their passing went unremarked and hopefully unnoticed.

They only began to run when they had reached the trees. Alayne had argued for horses, in case they had to separate, and because she feared Mya’s mules would be suspected, but Mya had argued that they would make better time with the mules in the mountains.

“I let out two of the best horses,” Mya told her. If we are lucky, they’ll not think about searching for us in the mountains before we’ve made it past the eagle pass.

When they had reached the mules, Alayne took her prepared bundle, and put on the trousers, while Mya took the scissors she had packed and cut Alayne’s hair until it was as short as a boy’s. Alayne suppressed tears when she put the black tresses into her bundle. If Littlefinger found them, he would know that she had fled.

Alayne put on a felt cap and Mya and her climbed the mules at the same time. Alayne thought she could hear fighting noises from the tourney field. The mountain clans probably had taken advantage of the commotion. But she could not make herself car.

It was only after they were several miles into the mountains, that Alayne alloweded herself to inhale deeply.


	7. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Jon succeed in finding Sansa?

Jon felt oddly comfortable in the company of the wolf. His journey even further South was not as lonely as his way to Winterfell.

But Ghost was about the only thing that made him happy. The fact that the wolf had accepted him, showed him that the lord of Winterfell was probably right when he had claimed him as a cousin, but Jon felt as if someone had robbed him.

_I am a man of the Freefolk. If being of kneeler lord origin helps me to get help for my people I will use it, but they won’t make me one of them._

He would get his cousin, bring her to the King and demand help and support for the Freefolk.

The Lord of Winterfell had offered help and Jon had travelled to White Harbour and his journey was swift and fast. He went to a weirwood as often as he managed and after a while Bran’s voice in the tree didn’t feel odd any longer.

Jon liked the high peaks and the snow covered hillsides of the vale. It reminded him of home. This evening he did not find a weirwood grove and set up camp early. Bran had told him, that he was near now, and all the traveling had him weary. Ghost brought him a hare, and Jon thanked the wolf. He set up a fire to roast the hare and sent the wolf away to hunt for more. He could feel that the wolf was still hungry.

Jon looked sceptically at the sky. It would snow today, and he quickly set up a shelter, that would protect him.

He was just about to settle for the night, when he heard voices.

He stood, and slowly and carefully worked his way in the direction of the voices. A boy and a girl stood in the middle of a clearing, and two knights in heavy mail towered over them, and another man in rich clothes sat on his horse. The girl and the boy held the reins of two mules. The boy was trembling heavily, but held a dagger in his fist and the girl held a short sword.

The man in rich clothes smiled, but it was not a nice smile.

“Alayne, Alayne, my clever girl, did you think I would give up easily?”

His eyes glittered. “You are mine. Come with me now willingly, and I won’t hurt your friend.”

Jon doubted that. The man did not sound sincere. He wondered why the girl had wanted to leave and if the boy had stolen her. She had a very determined look, but the boy did look rather too timid to have stolen her.

To Jon’s surprise, it was the boy that answered.

“I am not yours. And I know, you’ll kill Mya as you killed Myranda. I’d rather kill myself than return. I hate you.” She spat.

_The boy is a girl. Two girls on the run, against three grown men._

Jon did not know what to do. He needed to fulfil the task Bran had set him, but the trembling girl who had dressed as a boy touched his heart, and it was obvious that she hated the man with the oily smile.

The man laughed, and the sound made Jon shudder.

“Alayne, don’t defy your father. I don’t know what has gotten into you.”

“You are not my father.”

Before he could think too long, he picked up a stone and threw it at one of the knight’s horses. The horse whinnied and rose on his hind legs. The knight lost his balance and Jon broke out of the bush, dagger in his left hand. He quickly seized the chance to overpower the knight who struggled to raise and put his dagger through his eye. The girl who wore girl’s clothes barked a sharp command and the mules circled the other horse and began to kick in rapidly.

The second knight was preoccupied, and Jon turned towards the other rider. He jumped the horse and held his dagger at the man’s throat. The man gazed at him with a look of sheer terror. His face had blanched to a greenish tinge.

“Stark?”, he stuttered. “Stark?”

The second knight’s horse had been felled by the constantly kicking mules and together the two girls managed to disarm the man. The determined girl bound him with the leather ropes she took from one of her bags.

The girl with the short hair and the cap turned around and looked at the unexpected help. She stared at Jon, opened and closed her mouth.

“Father?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I thought he is not your father?” Jon was surprised.

She shook her head, as if to drive away a strange vision. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Jon from the clans.”

“You look like my father, my real father.” She was shaken.

Jon wondered why he would look like a Southerner. He didn’t want to look like a Southerner.

“Why did you help us?”

“It was two against three.”

“Thank you, Jon.”

Jon shrugged as if it meant nothing. He could see that the girl was pretty, maybe even beautiful. Her short hair gave him an excellent view on the lovely curve of her neck.

“What shall I do with him?” He gestured at the man in front of him.

Her face became very grim.

“Now, that I have him alone, I think I’ll ask him some important questions.”


	8. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Sansa and Mya start their journey to Riverrun.

The clansman was a riddle to her. She had never met a man from the Mountain clans, but she had heard terrible things. She would not have thought that their accent was that close to how people in the North spoke. This man almost sounded like the Liddle had sounded, when he had visited Winterfell.

“Be quick about it,” the clansman said. “I still have a task ahead.”

She nodded. “We have to rush. I doubt that these two knights were the only ones who accompanied him.”

“Lord Baelish”, she asked. “Let’s finally be done with all the pretences. I am heartily sick of playing the dutiful daughter. You will tell me, how you had my father killed and your plans against my brother.”

Littlefinger gave her one of his oily smiles. He had found his confidence again, the eerie resemblance of the clansman with Ned Stark had only confused him for a short while.

“Alayne, be sensible, you are in the wilderness, you won’t survive. And remember I saved you from King’s Landing.”

“And yet you would not let me go home.”

“Your home is with me, Alayne. You must know that. You owe it to me. I will give you everything you ever wanted.” His voice was pleading.

She hardened her heart.

“I’d rather die in the wilderness than continue to serve to your whims and listen to your lies. You never gave me what I wanted. I want my real home.”

“Shall we take him or leave him here for his men to find him?”, she asked Mya.

“We have to leave. I’ll send the mules away and we take the horses. We’ve made the eagle pass, now we need speed if we want to outrun our pursuit. Next time we might not get help. Decide quickly.”

“I would love to take him so my brother could give him a trial, but you are right, there is no time.”

They exchanged a look and Mya nodded.

_We’re going to ride away and leave the horses later._

She smiled at the Clansman. His face looked so much like her father’s that she trusted him instinctively. Se chided herself for that.

“Does your task leave enough time to help us to put them in fetters?”

He nodded and climbed down from the horse, dragging Littlefinger behind. That had been quite an impressive jump.

She gagged Littlefinger before they left.

“I deny you,” she told him. “You are nothing but a schemer. I’m sure my mother never loved you. She loved only my father.”

She spit out.

“I detest you and I’ll kill you before I ever let you touch me again.”

Suddenly she felt light and wonderful as if she could spread wings and soar in the air.

The clansman had observed her with unreadable black eyes.

They climbed on the horses. Mya took the reins of the mules.

“I wish you good luck, Jon of the Clans,” she said. “I hope you will succeed in your task. I wish I could reward you for your kindness and your valour.”

“What is your task?” Mya asked.

Jon hesitated.

“You might be able to help me,” he finally said.

He fidgeted with the reins of his horse.

“Brandon Stark of Winterfell charged me with bringing home his sister.”

“You mean Sansa Stark?” Mya blurted out before Alayne could stop her.

Jon nodded.

_Is he telling the truth? How would Bran know that I am here? Or is he one of Littelfinger’s, luring me in again, playing with my hopes?_

Her eyes suddenly burned. All those years, she had hoped that Robb would come to her rescue and now Bran had sent one man, just one man.

_Why does he look like father? Did Littlefinger hire him? But he sounds like a Northerner._

“Sansa Stark has been lost for years. Why would you look for her in the Vale.”

“Brandon Stark is a greenseer, he is the Raven” was the only answer she got. He studied her with calmly, searching her features as if he was puzzling something out.

It hit her then.

“You are not from the mountain clans!”, she exclaimed. “You are a wildling!”

Panic seized her and she urged her horse on.

“Mya, we have to leave now. I don’t know who he is, but this might be a trap”.

A white form suddenly emerged out of the woods.

Mya, tough, fearless Mya screamed and was almost thrown from her horse, when it raised his forelegs in panic.

“Ghost,” the wildling called. “Easy now.”

She slid from her horse, the tears finally finding their way down her cheeks.

“Ghost!”. She ran towards the wolf and he recognized her. She threw herself down at his side, and buried her face in his fur. “Ghost! Gods be good!”

She knew she was in danger, but the wolf was home, it was her father, Winterfell and her family as well as a pang at her heart when she remembered Lady, her own wolf.

It took her a while to calm herself.

“As unlikely as it seems,” she told Mya. “That man speaks the truth. Ghost is proof, that my brother sent him and that we can trust him.”

The wildling looked with a funny expression that could have been jealousy at her and the wolf.

Ghost did not share his reluctance at all. She had to tell him to keep his distance, so the horses would not be spooked. They still needed them for a while.

They had ridden for about half an hour when snowflakes began to fall silently and soft from the sky, hiding their tracks. It made Sansa almost believe in the Gods again.


	9. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has it bad, like real bad...

Since they needed to travel for a long time, Sansa insisted that they took up a routine. They shared their tasks, the watches at night and developed a rhythm for their travel. Jon who was used to travel with Tormund balked at the strictness of it all and protested that he was not a kneeler and would not be ordered around. They almost shouted at each other, when they fought.

“My lady,” Jon had hissed “do you suggest we take turns when we go to pee as well?”

Sansa crossed her arms over her chest. Her cheeks were flushed.

“We are being followed,” she hissed back. “I do indeed think it would be a good idea, if we let each other know, when we have to… “ she hesitated “… pass water.”

Jon almost laughed in her face. “You are such a prim Southerner that you can’t even say pee.”

Her flush told him that he had guessed correctly.

She opened her mouth no doubt to chide him when Mya interrupted them with a clipped voice.

“Sound carries well over freshly fallen snow. I suggest you two wait with this argument until we have a snow storm again.”

Sansa pressed her lips together and nodded. Then she pointed at herself and to the trees and left in a flurry of snow.

_She is my key to get the King’s help. She is the key to saving my people. And she is my cousin._

He didn’t know how often he reminded himself of this. And gods did she get under his skin. It annoyed him that her planning he had opposed had turned out to be sound. Mya was a great help with hunting and she was well prepared to travel stealthily through the woods, but when they came to towns or villages, it was always Sansa who came up with a plan, a backstory for them and a knack for making people fall over their feet to help them. Jon, who had had a reputation of being too clever for his own good with his own people was constantly reminded that this was not his world.

He knew enough to be alarmed though when they went to a small town, the next day, and saw horses tied next to the inn. That probably meant knights. And knights could be trouble. It was just him and Sansa. They needed food. Sansa was dressed as a boy. Mya and Ghost had stayed at their camp.

Sansa stealthily went to the horses and had a good look. Jon watched her anxiously, worried that she might try to steal the horses.

“They are Lefford men,” she said, when she returned. “They are bannermen to the Lannisters. This is not entirely good news, but they should not know me.”

“How do you know that?”

“They are rich enough to have tiny silver crests on the reins of their horses.”

“Crest?”

“Coat of arms. The pictures that stand for a house?”

“There are pictures for every house?”

“No, just for the nobles.” Sansa answered.

“So, just for the masters, not for the kneelers?” Jon asked.

Sansa gave him a strange look as if she had never thought about that. She nodded.

“Sometimes houses can be raised to nobility by the king or one of the great houses. They choose a coat of arms on their own then.”

Jon scoffed. He would never understand these Southern customs.

“If we meet them, you’d better bow. We don’t need any undue attention.”

Jon scowled, but he would do as she said. Sansa slipped into her role of an errand boy who bought bread for the peddler she and Jon worked for. They had agreed on Jon keeping silent, because of his accent and because he had absolutely no idea about the little silver pieces that would pay for the bread.

The town was big enough to have a bakery and they entered. Sansa took down her hood because of the heat and Jon did as well. People might see their faces, but keeping the hoods up would raise more suspicion.

Jon was distracted by the view on Sansa’s neck. Sansa’s bare neck, clearly visible with her hood down and her short hair was a very pretty view. He watched the slender narrowing curve of her neck and wondered how anybody could be fooled by her boyish appearance. Her neck was clearly the neck of a woman.

He realised that he usually did not have such a clear view of a woman’s neck. The women of the Freefolk had long hair as had the men.

_I wonder if Sansa would get goose bumps on her neck if I breathe on the creamy skin below her hairline._

He shook his head to pull himself out of his reverie. _She’s my cousin._

The sooner he could bring her to her brother the better.

Jon carried the bread on their way back. Sansa and Mya counted their money and Sansa told her about the knights. They decided to move on as long as there was still daylight, and it was up to Jon to watch out for a nice shelter.

Jon tried his best to make the shelter cosy and warm and he was rewarded for his effort, when Sansa took of her hood again and he got a glimpse of her slender neck. He wrenched his eyes away and concentrated on the bread. It was fresh now, crusty and tasty and when Mya asked him he admitted that he liked the Southern bread better than the flatbread the Freefolk baked on hot stones.

Sansa laughed. The sound cut directly at Jon’s heart, but he did not dare to raise his eyes.

“So, you admit that we kneelers are good at something.”

“You are not a kneeler. You are a master, a lady. People kneel to you.”

Sansa took a big bite from her own bread.

“I don’t know about that,” she mused. “I grovelled and kneeled many times since my father was killed, to save my own life, to save others. I think, there are good reasons to kneel sometimes.”

Jon looked up from his food, and looked into Sansa’s eyes and it was to him as if he found understanding.

Sansa smiled.

“I don’t even think you will have to kneel to my brother.”

Ghost suddenly came up to her and licked her face. She laughed and petted the wolf.

Jon lowered his eyes again. _She’s my cousin_ , he chided himself.

The next weeks became increasingly difficult for Jon. His mind told him to stay clear of Sansa. She was his cousin, a Southern lady and not for him. He started each day with the intent to stay well clear of her.

Ghost, the wolf who had become such a close companion on his way to the Vale ruined his determination. He was circling around Sansa as if he knew Jon’s heart. The wolf came to her side immediately when they met riders, he begged for treats and petting, and Jon was annoyed, that the wolf did what he denied himself, and he was jealous. At times he wished the journey would end, and at times when they sat at the fire and Sansa told stories, he wished he could travel forever.

Sometimes Jon wondered, if Sansa even had an idea what she did to him. She was friendly, asked about his home, pitied his people and worried about the danger they were in. It was when she was playful and teasing that he wondered if she knew she was torturing him. Maybe southern ladies had different ideas about cousins than his people?

He realised that he was well and truly lost, when they were almost at Riverrun. Sansa’s hair had grown. His mind told Jon that he should be glad about that, because it meant that her neck was not as visible as before, but that was before they had decided to risk an inn and Sansa had taken a bath and washed her hair. When they sat at the fire that evening, her drying hair seemed to sparkle and framed her face in soft waves. Sansa sang softly, and Jon wanted to live in this moment forever. She sang about Florian and Jonquil, a story Jon did not know, but liked immediately.

When she had finished the song, Sansa fingered her hair, which had grown enough to be curled around her finger.

“I wonder if they will even recognize me.”

Mya patted her hand. “They will be overjoyed.”

“At least my hair is almost back to my own colour. I know it is a risk, but I didn’t want to waste money on dye.”

It hit Jon like a hammer. Her hair wasn’t brown, it was a rich auburn, his favourite colour.

_She’s my cousin._

Just before they went to bed, she sang a lullaby. “ho, ho, howling to the moo, moo, moon.” He could have wept.


	10. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive at Riverrun. Do Bran instructions even make sense?

Sansa could not have said when she had felt this safe the last time. She was afraid, that she would wake one morning, and find herself in the Vale again, with a maid she did not trust starting the fire or one of Littlefinger’s knights knocking at her door or Littlefinger himself sitting at her bed and watching her.

Instead she was with her friend Mya, Ghost who seemed closer to her than he had ever been when he had been her father’s direwolf and her brooding and handsome cousin.

She would rather bite of her tongue than say this out loud, but he was refreshing. The men in the Vale had all wanted something from her, either they wanted to belittle her because of her bastard status to feel better themselves or they were fawning over her because they wanted her to influence the man she had been forced to call father or they tried to get into her good graces and persuade her to lose her maidenhead before her wedding with Harold.

And here was her cousin, he seldom spoke and if he did, his sentences were short and to the point. He argued with her instead of talking down to her or agreeing too readily. He didn’t even look at her that often. She wondered if he even liked her or if he just saw her as a way to get Robb’s goodwill. He readily had admitted to her that he needed her to save his people. Sansa found his honesty very endearing.

When they had almost reached Riverrun and she had run out of dye for her hair, she felt secure enough to take a bath. It was a bliss and later at the fire, she felt warm and cosy and decided to sing. She had not sung in ages. Sansa would have sung for her poor sick cousin Sweetrobin who was a spoiled brat but who had loved her, but Sweetrobin had hated singing, since his mother’s death. And after Sweetrobin and Myranda had died, Sansa had not felt like singing.

Jon seemed to like her singing. For the first time, he did not scowl at her, but had listened intently.

Sansa’s heart had felt light and carefree, and even her fear that someone could still prevent her from reaching her family had not been enough to quench the surge of hope in her heart.

When they approached Riverrun she was fretting, that even the telltale direwolf would not get them access to the king. From afar one could see that the place was bustling with soldiers. Sansa was planning on how best to approach the soldiers. She feared that nobody would recognize her and that a girl dressed as a boy, a wildling and a mule girl had little chance to be admitted to the king.

She was very surprised when Jon produced a letter by Bran. She snatched the letter out of his hand, barely supressing her anger that she had not seen it earlier.

“Bran told me to give you the letter only in sight of Riverrun.” Jon apologized.

Sansa read the letter carefully and shook her head. Bran had cramped the letters together until they were barely legible and it was still five pages long. No word of greeting, no word about that he had missed her, just the meticulous description of the banners she would see over Riverrun and what she should do, if she saw the Tully banner, and what she should do, if she saw the Manderly banner.

She read it out loud to Mya and Jon and together they managed to find the exact combination of banners that seemed to apply.

“How do you know all these banners?” Jon asked. There was a tint of admiration in his voice.

“So, Mya you are going in and pretend you are looking for your husband, and you take Ghost on a cartwheel.”

Sansa frowned.

“Ghost will fetch my mother. Will he be able to do that?”

She sighed.

“This seems so complicated.” Mya said. “Why don’t we just identify ourselves?”

“Bran is a raven, maybe even the Raven,” Jon said. “We would disregard his advice at our own peril. And if you describe your mother, Mya will find her and I will look out as well.”

Sansa shot him a surprised look.

“What do you mean?”

Jon mumbled under his breath, but Sansa thought she heard “warging”.

“I was always told, that I look very much like my mother,” she said. “I haven’t seen her for a long time though.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Does her hair have the same colour as yours?”

Sansa nodded.

“Then Ghost will find her.”

“I think I know your mother anyway,” Mya said. “I saw her when she visited your aunt on the Eyrie.”


	11. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Stark reunion fluff

Catelyn’s thoughts trailed off. Robb was still listening to the men who had come to part with information on Sansa Stark. Catelyn did not believe a word the men were saying, and she thought they were just trying to get a little bit of the reward, King Robb had promised to everyone who had information on his sister.

_Sansa is lost. And so is Arya._

Robb had not married again, after his wife Jeyne had died in the trap that had been set by the Freys, that he himself had barely escaped. Catelyn had been in a Frey prison until the old Lord Walder had died. By then she was the Frey’s only hope to escape the punishment of the Young Wolf. She wondered if her daughters were alive. She was sure the Lannisters did not have her. Brienne of Tarth had returned after she had brought Jaime Lannister to King’s Landing. Sansa had been whisked away shortly before and Brienne had been unable to trace her.

The men that were still blathering were claiming they had seen Sansa in King’s Landing. Catelyn shook her head. Brienne would have found her.

Quietly, she stood up and left without excusing herself. Robb would question the men until they would admit that they knew nothing. He always did. The Frey trap had changed her boy. He had become warier, tended to trust only people from the North.

She went outside for a breath of fresh air. On days like this, she missed her daughters so much. She prayed to the Gods, that she would see them again, hear Sansa sing. _Surely she would still sing? If she is alive, she must be a grown woman now._

Catelyn’s heart ached with a familiar pain that would not leave her, not entirely. She wondered if she would ever get grandchildren. Robb would possibly marry again at some point. He should marry again. She worried about Bran’s latest messages.

Her feet carried her away from the main hall and she wondered aimlessly around. There was a continual coming and going. Even though Winter had Riverrun in its grip like the whole of Westeros, the King in the North’s army needed food. The ground was so hard though, that even the multiple carts had not reduced the ground to mud.

Catelyn stepped outside of the castle, just to get away from the hustle. A few strides away from the castle, the noise was much reduced. A young woman approached who pushed a cartwheel, and Catelyn stepped aside to let her pass.

The woman looked vaguely familiar and Catelyn followed her with her eyes, frowning. She was just about to grasp the memory, when she realised a movement under the blanket that covered the cartwheel. She stopped and went after the cartwheel, drawn by curiosity and a primal fear.

A pair of deep red eyes stared at her. Her heart seemed to stop, and she cried out, suddenly vividly remembering the Frey trap.

It was a direwolf, who bounced out of the cartwheel, white and huge, but he was no threat.

“Ghost,” Catelyn called. _What did her husband’s wolf do here? Was she dreaming?_

The direwolf came to her side, tongue lolling, licking her hand. Catelyn was stunned. Had she died, and did the direwolf come to escort her to Ned?

As if on cue, the wolf pressed himself to her side, and urged her to go.

As if in a dream Catelyn set one foot before the other. She could not be dead. Her left shoe still pressed a little bit too hard on her left pinky toe, just short of being uncomfortable. Surely, she would not feel that, if she was dead? She barely registered that the girl had put down the cartwheel.

When he had her moving, Ghost took the lead and Catelyn followed in a daze.

The direwolf led her to a clearing. There was a fire and man and boy were sitting at it. The man turned when she arrived, and Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat.

“Ned”, she called out.

But it was not Ned. His hair was darker, curlier, and he was much younger.

Catelyn frowned, unsure.

“Who are you?”, she asked.

The boy stood as well.

“Mother,” he cried.

 _No, not he, Sansa_. _It is Sansa!_

“Sansa, oh Sansa,” She forgot about the man who looked like Ned. They ran to each other. Tears were already streaming down Catelyn’s face, she muttered under her breath, thanking the Gods, and then she held her daughter in her arms.

_Finally, finally! My Sansa. She is taller than me!_

It took them quite a while before they caught their breaths again and could speak.

“O my dear, what happened to your hair? And who is that young man, who looks like Ned?”

Catelyn looked at the young man. _Did he travel alone with Sansa?_

“Mother, this is Jon. He is Aunt Lyanna’s son! Can you believe that?”


	12. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets Robb. A prophecy is fulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Stark fluff, I guess

Sansa had left out that Jon was not only Lyanna’s son but also one of the Freefolk. That must be the reason, why Catelyn Stark was so nice to him. He was about to tell her, when Sansa shook her head slightly, mouthing ‘later’, when her mother did not look.

They were on their way to the castle, which was not as big as Winterfell, but still big enough to awe Jon. He was overwhelmed by the amount of people that crowded the castle. He occasionally saw people bowing to Catelyn, but most people gave them and the white direwolf a wide berth.

Sansa was telling her mother about her escape from the Vale. Jon was about to interrupt her when she elaborated on his bravery and how he had saved her and Mya from certain recapture. Jon was sure Sansa exaggerated and he wasn’t entirely sure why. Mya laid a hand on his arm, when he opened his mouth to object. _I am Bael the Bard come again if you believe her._

He would have to trust Sansa. Ghost walked between Sansa and Catelyn and Jon could feel his excitement, as well as a certain sadness and longing he had not felt before in the wolf or maybe had not realised before. Jon wondered if a part of his uncle Ned stayed in his wolf and if he mourned to see his wife.

Catelyn’s reaction to seeing her daughter would have been worth bringing Sansa back on its own. It had been heartwarming to watch. Jon had almost cried as well. He could not have told if he was happy that Sansa had found her family again or if he was sad that their journey was over. _She is your cousin. She is a Southerner. The Dead are coming._ So many reasons why he should not dwell on thoughts of her _._

He should concentrate on his mission. He hoped that this Wolf King was as approachable as his mother.

So many times, he had played the scenario in his head. He probably should kneel to the king, and then he should plead for his people. He shuddered.

Sansa had told her story in broad strokes. She brushed over the stresses and strains of their winter travel.

Catelyn was very upset about Lord Baelish, the man who had held Sansa against her will.

“To think that he turned out to betray my trust like that. I sure hope, he rots in hell.”

She turned to Jon.

“I am so grateful, that you helped Sansa, escape, but pray tell me, why is it, that I never knew about Lyanna’s son?”

Sansa pulled at her sleeve.

“I want to see Robb. Jon can tell you all that later.”

Catelyn smiled at her daughter’s impatience, but Jon wondered why she dodged the question of his origin.

Catelyn led them on and all the guards let them pass. Jon was fighting his nerves when they entered the castle. He had not been inside the castle in Winterfell and the stones seemed to weigh heavy on his mind and put him on edge.

They entered a great hall, that was only lit by a few fires. Jon tried to adjust his eyes to the sudden darkness. A young man about Jon’s age sat at a table, a dark grey direwolf at his side.

“Robb”, Sansa called.

Ghost was even faster than her. He and the other wolf were circling each other, tails wagging while Sansa was caught in Robb’s arms. Catelyn joined them again for good measure.

Again, it was a while until Jon and Mya were noted.

“Robb, this is my good friend Mya. She was the only friend I had in the Vale, and she helped me escape.”

Mya let herself drop slightly in a gesture, that made her look smaller for a moment, just like she had done with Catelyn. Jon stared. _Is this how the Southerners kneel?_ He panicked briefly. He would never be able to imitate this.

The Young Wolf turned to him, and Sansa opened her mouth to introduce him.

Unceremoniously, Jon dropped to his knees. He could hear the King take in his breath. Sansa smiled, as if she knew he would do this.

“My name is Jon”, he introduced himself. “Your brother Bran sent me to fetch your sister, so that I could better plead my case.”

Robb frowned.

“And your case is?” he asked.

“To beg for your mercy. To plead for my people.”

The King looked at him, his eyes unreadable.

“You are a wildling.”

Jon nodded.

“The kneeling wildling”, the king whispered.

Jon was startled when the Young Wolf began to laugh.

“The kneeling wildling who is a Stark. You look like my father. Why?”

“Apparently he is your aunt’s son.” Catelyn said.

“So, Bran was right. He was right.”

The King sighed as if the joy at seeing his sister had left him suddenly and as if a weight had suddenly sunk down on his shoulders.

He looked at his mother.

“Uncle Benjen sent a raven. The rumours are true. After thousands of years the White Walkers have returned. And Bran’s babbling about a kneeling wildling came true. He must be a seer indeed.”

He sighed.

“It seems being a king means never to have untainted joy”.

He raised his hand and Jon was impressed that the hall became quiet.

“Today we feast. My sister has returned to us and I want you all to share my joy.”

Jon let the cheering and the noise wash over him. What was the King’s answer to his plea?

“For all the Gods sake, old and new, lad, stand up. I don’t know what you think you know about us, but we don’t spend our whole time on our knees.”

He gave Jon his hand and hoisted him up. Then he held both their hands up, fastened in a firm grip.

“Tomorrow we march. North, with new allies and to face an ancient enemy that threatens all.”


	13. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Robb talk, Robb has a plan. Sansa realises that she likes Jon... very much

Sansa was not happy that they did indeed start North the very next day. She would have liked to get some rest at Riverrun. But her mood could not really turn sour. She was reunited with her mother and Robb, and they were on their way to Winterfell. She would see Bran and Rickon again. She felt safe and happy. Even telling her mother some of her experiences in the Vale did not diminish her joy. It felt like just like a bad dream already. Mya was riding with her. She was at ease and added to Sansa’s account.

Sansa was strangely reluctant to share details of her journey with her cousin. It was as if it was a precious memory she had to hoard. A memory that would vanish if she talked too often about it. Not that her mother was very intent on learning about her journey. She wanted to know about the Vale and she was livid when she heard about Littlefinger.

“To think that I believed him, when he wrote he had not seen you! I wish I could kill him.”

Her mother’s cheeks were flushed in anger. “What was his plan anyway?”

“I am not certain”, Sansa answered. “But I think he was involved in the Frey treason. I think, his plans went awry when Robb escaped, but he was too deeply involved to back down after that. He began to drink heavily after the Frey treason.”

“It is a pity you could not bring him,” Robb mused. “It would be quite interesting to hear how he would have tried to kill me next.”

“We were lucky to escape. Retribution has to wait,” Sansa said.

“And it was such a close call to hear you tell it,” her mother said.

“I really wonder about Bran. Why did he send Jon and not just someone from Winterfell?”

Sansa blushed, when she remembered how valiant Jon had fought for her, even though he didn’t know who she was.

“I wonder, if Bran needed someone who would just believe him and ask no questions. Jon knows about greenseers or the Raven, as he calls him,” Sansa mused. “Maybe nobody in Winterfell would have gone to look for me on Bran’s word alone.”

Robb shook his head. “I really don’t understand. It seems incredibly complicated to send a Wildling south to the rescue instead of just sending a raven to me.”

“Freefolk,” Sansa corrected her brother. “They don’t call themselves Wildlings.”

Her brother shrugged.

“Would you have send someone because Bran dreamed where Sansa was?”

Robb shrugged again.

“Maybe not. He was wrong about Arya. To think that Bran gained some wizarding powers!”

He laughed. “It seems so strange that we suddenly gained a cousin.”

He called out and Jon who had been riding behind them, closed up to them. Sansa smiled at him, but he avoided her eyes.

Robb clapped him on his back, when his horse had come near enough.

“I just told my family, that it is funny to have suddenly gained a cousin.”

Jon nodded, he looked unhappy and moody. _He probably is worried for his people._

The thought sobered her.

“So, my sister tells me, that you call yourself Freefolk”, Robb said.

Jon who had studied the reins of his horse, suddenly looked up and his dark eyes met hers. A jolt of joy suddenly raced through her veins.

“We do,” he answered.

“So you don’t have any lords.”

Jon shook his head.

“Who leads you then?”

“At the moment, Mance Rayder. Some call him King beyond the Wall, but we only follow him because he promised us he would bring us to safety, far from the reach of the White Walkers.”

Robb’s face became pensive.

“My uncle Benjen, I mean, our uncle Benjen, writes, that he is in negotiation with your people. Apparently the old Lord Commander was murdered in the middle of the night by a man who should have been dead. He rose with blue eyes and a third of the garrison was killed before they managed to burn these undead creatures.”

“If it had not been Benjen who wrote that, I would not have believed it,” Robb continued. “Does this sound like your enemy?”

Jon’s eyes had widened slightly. “They should not have come to life south of the Wall. The Wall is protected by magic against the White Walkers,” he said. His voice sounded frightened.

“Apparently, the Night’s Watch is to blame. They brought some corpses they had found beyond the wall. But it probably is best not to be too certain that the Wall will hold them back forever.”

“Gods” Jon exclaimed. “That was stupid. Everyone knows you should just burn dead people.”

He shuddered.

“One of my… “ he hesitated. “my fosterfather’s cousins died in his sleep and he rose again in the middle of the night. We were lucky, the dogs had begun to bark. We always burn our dead.”

Robb nodded.

“I guess, we should change our customs, just in case.”

Sansa suddenly felt cold. Jon had told her that the Freefolk burned their dead and she had found it peculiar. She wished she didn’t know why they had to do it.

Jon turned and looked at her, saw her distress.

“According to our lore, the Wall was built to hold them back,” he assured her.

When she nodded, he abruptly turned again. Sansa could have sworn, he wrenched his eyes away.

The road became narrower and they had to ride single for a while, and then it became broader again, Robb waved at her to join him.

“Tell me about our cousin, Sansa”, he asked her.

“Why?”, she wanted to know. She felt reluctant to share her hoard of memories.

“If we are to ally with his people, we need to know, if he is reliable, if he keeps his word.”

He searched her face.

“He hasn’t made any undue advances, has he?”

Sansa shook her head. “I don’t think he would ever.”

“It is just…. The way he looks at you.” Robb dropped his voice.

Sansa felt the blood rush to her face. _He looks? Does this mean he likes me?_

“He is more of the brooding nature. But I trust him.”

She found that she could tell about their journey after all. If Jon liked her, then she could spend all the memories from her imagined golden hoard. She didn’t have to jealously guard her memories.

She felt warm and her mood lifted. Telling Robb about how they had eaten rabbit and how Jon had built snow shelters. How they had faked tracks to throw off their pursuers.

Sansa felt a laughter bubbling in her chest and Robb smiled encouragingly. It was so good to see him. She could see her brother in his eyes and not just the king.

“Do you like Harry,” he suddenly asked. “Do you want to honour your betrothal.”

“O no,” Sansa answered. “He was not unkind to me, but he…”, she hesitated, feeling an angry blush coming to her cheeks. “… he was always …. you know… “. Her voice dropped. “… bedding the maids.”

“So, you won’t cry over him?”

“No”

Robb fell silent, fidgeting with his reins.

_You are not very subtle, Brother. I lived with Littlefinger. I know all about politics._

She reached out to him, touching his shoulder.

“It means very much to me, that you care, Robb,” she said. “I know that I am the king’s sister.”

He clenched his teeth.

“I married for love, Sansa and although I think, Frey would have betrayed me anyway, it cost me much. I cannot and I will not ask you to marry for politics.”

Sansa smiled. “But you think it would be very convenient.”

Robb had the grace to blush and nodded. “I won’t deny that. And you know, how people are. I’ve already heard talk about how you were practically alone with him on your journey here. It would slay two birds with one stone.”

“Mya was always with us. I’m not sure, he even likes me, Robb.” _It would be nice, if he did._

She allowed herself to daydream about Jon liking her.


	14. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds Jon after he tried to get away from the crowd. Finally, they talk.

Jon cursed his fate. He saw Sansa riding with her brother, but he was too far behind her to really catch what they were talking about. Mya and Catelyn were riding in front of him and over their animated conversation that seemed mostly to be about the crimes of the hopefully soon to be late Lord Baelish, he could only hear Sansa’s chiming laughter from time to time. When the road took a turn, Jon could catch a glimpse of Sansa’s face. Her cheeks were glowing, and she was excited. Occasionally, a ray of sunshine would touch her wonderful hair.

_It is ridiculous to be jealous about her brother. She hasn’t seen him in years, of course she is happy. She is my cousin. And my people are in danger._

Jon almost could wish that he had never met the Starks. He liked them. He liked Robb, who almost made him think, that lord or kings could be a good idea if the lord was a good lord. He liked Catelyn’s seriousness, her brisk efficiency. She had shared stories about her late husband with him and told her that he had loved his sister Lyanna. He had felt welcomed, more than with Bran. But Bran was a greenseer, the Raven. Nobody would expect him to have feelings.

Jon wondered what he should do. He probably should volunteer to lead the fight. He was a good fighter after all, even if he hated it.

He spent the rest of the day in silent misery. Ghost had roamed far and wide together with Grey Wind, the wolf of the king.

When the sun set, they reached a camp that had already been set up and Jon was astonished how orderly it all looked. The Freefolk set up their tents wherever they wanted, but he had to admit that with thousands of soldiers in camp, latrines were probably a good idea. Jon had a tent for himself.

He yearned for his own fire, with Sansa and Mya and cursed himself for it. He should try to get over this. It didn’t help that he had stolen Sansa and that she should be his. _If she weren’t my cousin._

Ghost returned, and Jon took the wolf with him to get away from the soldiers. He didn’t want to hear them talking about the king they admired. He didn’t want to get even more attached to the Starks. _I am Jon of the Freefolk._

Jon reached the treeline. The forest had lost all the leaves, this was not like the big dark forests of conifers, firs and spruce. This was a southern forest, but still Jon felt calmer.

He sat on a tree stump in a clearing and Ghost laid at his side. He tried to empty himself of thoughts.

It was full dark, when he realised that he almost fell asleep. This was the South, but it would still be dangerous to pass a night in the snow, unprotected. He stood.

The moon turned the snow to a shining silver and in this light the bare leafless tree had a haunting beauty that almost felt like a dream.

It almost felt natural, when he heard footsteps. It was Sansa, and her graceful walk seemed to dance with the moonlight. Grey Wind was at her side.

He did not dare to look at her face.

“You shouldn’t be here all on your own,” he said.

“Robb gave me Grey Wind to look for you. And Mya and a dozen soldiers are just behind me, but I thought you might not want too many people.”

He could not help himself. He had to smile. How had she known this?

“The camp is so crowded.”

She smiled. “That is how things in the South are.”

She came closer and Jon would have liked to stop his heart from beating so hard against his chest.

“Come back to the camp, even here in the South, Winter can be deadly, if you do not have a fire.”

“I know.”

“Does it feel very strange?”, she asked.

Jon nodded.

“To me, it feels strange as well. When I was a girl, I would have seen the armies and I would have thought of glory and songs, and now I only see how war means danger and death.”

“Is there even a chance that your people and mine will get along?”

“I fear, we must adapt or die,” Jon answered.

She laid her hand on his arm.

“I did that for years. And now, I am back with my family, and soon I will be home. There is hope yet.”

Jon thought he could feel the warmth of her breath, and he wished the moment would never pass.

But Sansa withdrew her hand.

“Jon, can I ask you something? About your people?”

He nodded.

“When I was a child, I heard that you steal women, what does that mean? Do you just carry them away against her will?”

“No man can steal a woman that does not want to be stolen.”

“Why not?”

Jon hesitated. “If he did, she would take her knife and kill him. He has to prove himself, enter her house without her brothers or fathers realising.”

He wondered briefly if it always was like that.

“We don’t have castles,” he explained. “You can leave a tent or a hut any time.”

“Can you accidentally steal someone?”

Jon’s breath caught. He did not trust his voice.

“Did you steal me?”, she asked.

“I could not steal you, I would not steal you.” His voice sounded strange in his ears. “You are my cousin.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”, she asked.

Jon felt heat in his face.

“You’re my kin,” he exclaimed.

Sansa looked at him thoughtfully.

“So, you do not wed your cousins?”

“Wed?”, he must have misunderstood. _What could wed even mean?_ “You mean bed? Certainly not.”

Sansa laughed as if she had solved a puzzle.

“We Southerners do.”

Jon felt light-headed.

“So, you do not kill people who do this?”

She smiled at him. “Certainly not.”

“So, according to your custom, I stole you, even though you are my cousin?”, he asked.

Sansa chuckled.

“No, our men don’t steal.”

“But that Lord Baelish stole you and you escaped him.”

“Yes, but it would have been against the law, if there had been anyone to enforce it.”

“What do you do then, if a man and woman want each other. Do you do this wedding?”

“It is more complicated than that. It is not just about wanting, but we make a promise before a heart tree in front of the Gods.”

Suddenly, his heart that had been full of misery, was full of joy. Something good might come of him being a Southerner after all.

He edged closer.

“Do you want to do this?”

“What?”

“This standing before a heart tree?”

Sansa’s smile let her face glow.

“So, you would abide by Southern custom?”

“If you smile at me like that, I will.”

He did not waste time relishing in her smile though. He took his left glove of, and put his hand under her hood, just at the base of her neck, like he had dreamed. Her short hair brushed across his fingers and he could feel the muscles in her neck. Sansa leaned into his touch, and he bent down to kiss her.

She tasted like nothing he had tasted before, and yet her taste fit her smell and the feel of her skin under his fingers. Her taste was just like the slender curve of her neck. A miracle, a wonder sent by the Gods, nothing he could have stolen, but something he could accept as a present.

_As long as she is with me, anywhere can be home._


	15. Bran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran is quite happy with how things worked out. He was born to be a matchmaker really. But what about his own happiness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it. The wrap-up. I know that I threw some hints across this story, that are not resolved..... But I guess Bran is no exactly in the right state of mind to take on a whole army of White Walkers.  
> Hope this was the right kind of fic to have some fluff for the holiday season, happy Starks and still some semi-canon stuff.

They were sitting at the weirwood tree, hands almost touching as they touched the tree’s bark and **_saw_**.

“I told you, I told you. They married! At the weirwood in White Harbour on their way North.” Bran was practically giddy that his plan had worked out.

He couldn’t seem to stop talking about it.

“Did you see how happy they are?”

“Sansa always wanted a splendid wedding, but I guess she didn’t mind the rush.”

Jojen did not answer, either because he had no opportunity to say something, when the words tumbled out of Bran’s mouth, or because he was deep in thought.

“Did you see how excited Ghost and Grey Wind were?”

“Did you see my mother smile? She has not smiled like this, since my father died.”

“Did you see how close Robb and Mya were standing to each other? Maybe Mya can help Robb finally get over Jeyne.”

“Bran…”

“Did I tell you, I found Arya’s dreams? That was really tough? I will get her home as well!”

“Think about it! We will be all together!”

“Bran!” Jojen interrupted him.

Bran stopped at Jojen’s serious face, his mouth slightly open, the sentence about the blacksmith he thought would be perfect for Arya, stuck in his mouth.

“I would be tempted to say that you have fulfilled your task. Your brother, the King, does believe you now.”

“Yes,” Bran got excited again. “It was perfect, Benjen’s and my letter, Jon came easily into the castle with my mother and acted exactly like I had told Robb. The kneeling wildling had a nice touch of a true prophecy, don’t you think?”

“But you do realise that it is not your purpose to make people happy.”

Bran looked at him, doubt in his eyes.

“Is it not?”

“No, your purpose is the fight against the White Walkers, you have to concentrate on that.”

Jojen frowned.

“And I do have the suspicion that you orchestrated Sansa’s rescue just for the purpose to bring your cousin and your sister together. I think you could have made your brother believe you more easily.”

Bran could feel a blush creeping to his cheeks and felt defiance rise in his heart. _If I can’t be happy, at least my family can._

“You told me to act on my own, and I did,” he said and pressed his lips together.

“Will bringing Arya home serve our war against the White Walkers?”

Bran scowled.

“What good is it, to see past and future, if I can’t make my family happy?”, he asked sullenly. “If they are happy they will be even more determined to fight.”

Jojen sighed. “Or they might be tempted to abandon the fight. It is hard to tell. That is why you have to visit many possible futures, not just the ones you like.”

Bran felt his eyes water. _I will not cry. I am a man grown. I know my responsibilities._

And then he cried all the same. Jojen’s face blurred before his eyes. He felt his friend’s hand on his shoulder and did not know, if he should shrug it off or lean into him.

“I don’t want the world to ride on my shoulders. So many things can go wrong. The White Walkers may destroy us all. What is wrong with a little happiness before the world’s possible doom?”

Jojen pressed his shoulder.

“I am so sorry, Bran. You are right. We should also see why we want to save the world?”

Bran stifled a sob.

“Will you be happy, when your family is here?”

Bran moved his head in a gesture that was half shrug and half nod. _He can’t know. He can’t._

He raised his eyes to his Jojen’s face and wiped his tears away angrily. For the first time, he thought he saw more than just the affection a teacher had for his ardent and best pupil, more than the pity that Bran had so much responsibility when he was so young.

He tried not to hope.

Jojen stroked his cheek, the warmth of his hand making Bran shudder even through the glove.

“My dear Bran…,” he said, trailing off.

“The three-eyed Raven is not supposed to feel, but I feel,” Bran cried out. “And I want to feel.”

“You know, maybe you are right,” Jojen admitted. “Maybe, it is not about feeling, but about not losing the greater picture.”

Jojen sighed.

“I thought, it would come in any case. The lack of feeling. It seems like I was wrong. I was afraid, what it would do to me, if you do not feel.”

“Do to you?”, Bran asked, his voice almost inaudible.

Jojen laughed, a short bark that held a hint of despair.

“I love you, Bran, you are my prince and my love.”

Bran was stunned. _He feels the same? He loves me?_

It had been years, since he had wished for his legs to work again, but he wanted them now. He wanted to dance.

He smiled slowly. “I love you, too.”

Their kiss did not make Bran dance on his legs, but his heart did.

When they finally broke apart, Bran grinned.

“Are you going to help me bring Arya back then?”, he asked. “There is another of King Robert’s bastards who might just be the one for her.”


End file.
